Page 60 of Don't Bet On It
“Sometimes. Well, after the first time she got in trouble for leaving me home alone, she was diligent for a few months. She would bring me here and let me wander around the stores. I couldn’t gamble, obviously. I probably technically shouldn’t have even been allowed in here. Nobody ever questioned me because they assumed I belonged to a guest.”
“And you liked it in here?” Zach’s forehead creased as he took in the painted ceiling. “Why?”
“Because it was a French village,” I replied, laughing. “I figured it was the closest I would ever get to the real France. It fired up my imagination. I always drew more with my crayons when I came back from this place.”
He settled across from me. “I guess I can see that.”
“No, you can’t,” I scoffed. “This place isn’t impressive to you.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s impressive to me. It matters that you love it.”
“I really do.”
The server came around to take our drink orders. As always, I went with the Blackberry Diablo. Ronan, who normally ordered beer, perused the specialty cocktail menu.
“I’ll have the Spicy Margarita,” he said finally.
The server nodded. She seemed distracted, although not scattered enough to refrain from giving him a solid once-over.
“She’s warm for your form,” I said when she disappeared.
Ronan’s forehead creased in confusion. “What now?”
“You know. Warm for your form. It’s a saying.” Something odd occurred to me. “My mother used to throw that out there all the time. I should probably retire the saying from my vocabulary.”
“Probably,” he agreed on a delighted laugh. He shook his head then leaned back in his chair. “You tried to save me with my father today.”
It wasn’t a question. I nodded all the same. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what it’s like to have a difficult parent.”
“Our parents couldn’t be more different.”
“No, but the effect they have on us is the same.”
“There is that,” he conceded, rolling his neck. “My father doesn’t care that my aspirations for myself don’t align with the ones he has for me.”
“Your father is a righteous prick.”
He smirked. “He seemed to remember your mother.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.” My lips curved downward. “Everybody remembers my mother.” It was said with more disdain than I thought possible when it came to Sharon. I’d long since exorcised her—and my feelings for her—from my life.
“I’m sorry.”
Confused, I looked over at him. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because I am.” He lifted one shoulder. “I get it. I have complicated feelings for my father too.”
“What about your mother?”
“They’re less complicated. I love her. She did her best by me. My father has always been difficult for her to deal with too.”
“She never wanted to divorce him?”
“Oh, I’m betting she thinks about divorce once a day. She never gets that far, though. She would have to give up the money—my father brings up their ironclad prenup at least once a month—and she loves the money too much to ever say goodbye to it.”
